


Breathe In

by temporalDecay



Series: a distrait life of mistakes [8]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asphyxiation, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, First Time, Gills, Hermaphroditic Trolls, M/M, Piercings, Size Kink, Tentabulges, piercings in places there shouldn't be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:23:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Equius Zahhak fails at kismesissitude and quadrants and sex, and Eridan Ampora makes it worse before making it better.</p><p>No SGRUB AU, post successful coup, featuring Eridan "Fiddlesticks" Ampora, Equius "Oh Dear Me" Zahhak, the entire crew of the <em>Morrigan</em>, Russel "FML" Zephyr, and guest appearances by Sollux "I'm An Asshole And Proud Of It" Captor, Nepeta "Don't Worry You'll Be Dead Before You Feel It" Leijon, The Psiioniic's massive lineface and Karkat "Oh My Fucking God, This Can't Be Happening" Vantas. Also sex, highblood mores and space battles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe In

You do not want him in your ship. 

In the long, never-ending list of things you do not want in your ship, Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora ranks solidly at the very top. He’s crass, vulgar, arrogant, and impertinent. He will bring discord to the delicate workings of your ship and disrupt the careful routines you have instilled in your men. The _Morrigan_ works with clockwork precision, but now you will have to bring him into your ship and put up with whatever he wants. He will ruin the perfection you and your men slave yourselves away to maintain. You do not want him here, you would absolutely refuse to do this, but you already gave your word. 

Were you a lesser troll, you would collapse in your chair as you watch the _Leviathan_ rise from its place in the docks and elegantly disengage the station in a downright artful manner. It dwarves your ship nearly three times over, but you cannot spare a moment to admire the orchestrated maneuvers or to sprawl in your seat and bemoan your miserable life. You gave your word, and you are sure there was something in the sharpness of Vantas’ voice that promised you horrors far beyond the imaginable if you failed him. You will not, on principle alone, but you do not like it, the way he bends and curls so easily to Ampora’s whims. It is madness, absolute, irrefutable madness, for one such as the High Chancellor of Alternia to openly declare himself matesprit to a convicted traitor. It has been sweeps now, spent in terse, almost brooding silence, but you are not satisfied. You know, deep down, that you will not be satisfied until Ampora pays for his crimes like he should have, with his life. The Empress’ infinite mercy and Vantas’ misguided pity should not have been enough to spare him. 

And now you have to bring him into your ship. 

You heave a put upon sigh, and consider the idea of sending someone out to fetch him for perhaps two seconds before you decide that can only end in disaster and resign yourself to the fact you will have to do it yourself. You leave a few standing orders in the bridge before heading out, quietly wishing Nepeta were around. You don’t know how you’re going to get through with having Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora in your ship without denting something and running out of towels. You walk down the corridor connecting the hangar with the cluster of trams connecting various areas. Trolls scramble out of your way, but you don’t really pay them much attention, busy with your thoughts. It is perhaps half an hour before you find yourself walking into the entertainment sector, and another forty minutes before you find the right bar. 

He’s sitting in a corner, and you almost don’t see him because he has a yellowblood woman sitting in his lap. You take a moment to let the scene properly sink in. Then you realize she has a knife in her hand, and you’re moving before you can really think about it, because if he gets himself killed it will somehow be your fault and Vantas will be _livid_. You storm up to where he is and pick up the woman by the back of her shirt, swiftly pulling her off his person and letting her drop on the floor a few feet away. She takes one good look at you before absconding. Good, you’re not in the mood to deal with that kind of nonsense. 

Eridan stares at you, clearly bemused by the sudden turn of events. You scowl at him, trying to look your most intimidating, and get a good look at him. He looks considerably less thin than last time you saw him, but still very much scrawny. There’s a mean spirited tilt to his smile, and several more steel rings hanging off his fins than you remember. It has always struck you as odd, that the only jewelry he seems to wear these days is made of steel. Nonetheless, wearing jeans and a nondescript shirt, he is hardly something to look at, even if he can’t hide his highblood heritage. The lack of violet in his clothes also tickles your annoyance. It’s not proper, for a man of his station, to let himself be seen in public like that. 

He just blinks at you, behind those ridiculously thick glasses that make his eyes look slightly larger than they really are, and snorts. You find yourself twitching slightly as he simply reaches for his drink and takes a swing from it, utterly unruffled by the whole affair. You are aware, peripherally, that you’ve become the center of attention. You find you don’t really care. But before you can find the right words, he opens his mouth. 

“I know it might be a bit hard for you to understand, Zahhak, but some of us are not stoic slabs of muscle and sexual frustration.” You feel a faint sheen of sweat gathering in your brow as your lips purse in a displeased expression. Ampora goes on, sprawling back in his chair with an air of ease that sits unpleasantly in your gut, seemingly uncaring of your opinion. “I happen to be one of those trolls that actually likes to fuck. A lot. I had something sweet going on, there, so why don’t you tell me why _the fuck_ you decided to swoop in and fuck it up for me?” 

You owe him nothing. Nonetheless, there’s something infuriatingly commanding in his voice, as you realize he’s not nearly as drunk as you originally assumed he was. 

“I had not known you intended to get _stabbed_ ,” you snap acidly, feeling yourself twitch in annoyance. 

“Matter of fact I was,” he snaps back, and something in the back of your pan twists in acknowledgment to that, “because we’re in a run down, shithole of a bar on the eve of drone season. Stabbing’s a good way to get the show on the road, since no one here has time for elaborate five-act, two-betrayals and three-double-crossing blackmances. So thanks, _sir_ , that was the single most melodramatic cockblocking move I’ve been subject to in my life. I hope for your own sake you have a damn good reason to have done that.” 

You stare at him, bewildered. Out of all the possible answers, you did not expect that. He sounds like he’s both inherently familiar with the process and casually in control of it, to the point you wonder how many times he’s found himself prowling about in such a place, getting ‘shows on the road’ and then in any dark corner… 

How utterly _repugnant_. 

You shove the improper thought to the furthest corner of your mind and instead glower at him threateningly. He arches an eyebrow at you, but otherwise remains unmoving. 

“Your _matesprit_ ,” you say, emphasizing the word just so, and knowing better than to name Vantas in a place like this, when you are already under so much scrutiny, “has graciously arranged for you to leave aboard the _Morrigan_.” 

A funny thing happens, then. You expect him to argue or complain or be otherwise disagreeable about the arrangement. Instead, the smirk falls off his face and he blinks again, shuffling to sit properly. 

“That _is_ a damn good reason,” he says after a moment, before reaches out to knock back the last of his drink. Then he stands up, brushing invisible lint off his shirt and sticking his hands into the back pockets of his pants. “Didn’t realize he’d sent you, of all people.” He frowns somewhat as he starts walking to the door. “Why didn’t you ask me to go to the ship instead of picking me up? There’s still time.” 

It takes you a moment to realize you’re following him on autopilot, and you hate yourself a little for it. You take the lead in two strides, and refuse to think about his question. In truth, that is exactly what you should have done. It just did not occur to you to do so. Or if it did, you simply assumed he would have ignored you or tried to make a scene over it. Dealing with him is so _exhausting_. 

“I did not realize you do this so often,” you say instead, tone just barely snide. 

He snorts again, slouching forward somewhat. His posture is tense, underneath the apparent carelessness of it. You don’t like it. Then again, the only thing you might have ever liked about him is his blood, and even that is no longer as important as it once was. 

“It’s not the first time I get stranded,” he replies, shrugging pragmatically. “Any time I step out of my ship, I know this might happen. It’s not the end of the world, I usually just hijack a ride with whatever’s going in the same general direction and hop ships once we’re outta the danger zone.” You twitch somewhat at the sheer arrogance of calling the _Leviathan_ his ship and the inconsiderate ease with which he speaks of such things. There is silence for a few minutes, as you are not inclined to reply to that, before he breaks it again. “Kar didn’t say he was sending _you_ , though.” 

Ever so carefully, you resist the urge to bristle. 

“Are you complaining?” 

He snorts yet again. You hate the sound, it’s so… _undignified_. 

“Nah, just didn’t figure you’d want to deal with my ass,” he shrugs, slouching as you step into the platform and wait for the next tram. “Since, you know. Last time.” 

“I have endeavored to forget about ‘last time’,” you say, as callously as you’ll allow yourself to be, which is a lot, and step into the vehicle as the doors open. 

“Ah,” Ampora says, awkward, and slouches in after you. 

Mercifully, he’s quiet after that. 

  


* * *

  


When you walk out of the bridge, he’s standing there. He pushes himself off the wall, but keeps his hands in his pockets, looking casual and as nonthreatening as you’ve ever seen him. It makes you twitch, because it feels like a calculated effort to annoy you. You wouldn’t put it past him. You wouldn’t put many things past him, really. 

“So,” he says, looking up at you with a certain awkwardness that comes, you think, from not being used to having to look up, to speak to someone’s face. It’s a petty thing to be pleased by, but when it comes to dealing with Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora, pettiness is a given. “What now?” 

“Excuse me?” You pull yourself to your full height, unbroken horn barely half an inch away from brushing the ceiling. 

You don’t like his tone. You don’t like his face. You don’t like his ridiculous collection of steel trinkets hanging off his fins. You don’t like his enormous glasses or his tendency to bite the inside of his lower lip, perpetually pouting at everything like it personally offended him. You don’t _like_ him, period. You’re pretty sure your expression telegraphs your feelings fairly clearly, because he slouches some more – _twitch_ – and shrugs. 

“Well, I talked to Kar and Psii,” they are his quadrantmates, of course, but the ridiculousness of such pet names still grates on your nerves, and you are fairly certain it would still do so if the one giving the pet names weren’t him. Karkat Vantas is the second highest ranking troll in all the Empire, and the other… what he might lack in blood or titles, he more than makes up for it with power and age. To hear Ampora speak of them so casually seems demeaning to you, and you wonder, in the privacy of your own mind, if he’s not doing it on purpose. He would, you think. He’s the kind of troll that would not waste a chance to flaunt his connections with such trolls, and you feel somewhat silly for not having thought of it before. He did it when you picked him up, too, now that you think about it. How disgraceful. “And the estimate’s about three weeks or so, before the _Morrigan_ catches up with the _Leviathan_ , so—“ 

“Rest assured,” you interrupt, starting to walk down the corridor and wondering if he’ll follow after you or not – he _does_ , the insufferable creature. “You will be delivered back to the _Leviathan_ as instructed, there’s no need for you to fret about it.” 

“Oh, it’s not about that,” he says, chuckling wryly and seemingly unruffled by your blatant provocations. You are being entirely too rude with him, you think, but you can’t bring yourself to care much about it. You notice he follows after you, keeping up with your longer stride, but not trying to take over it. Were it any other troll, and you’d take the gesture as respectful. But it’s Ampora, so you don’t. “I was wondering if you’d let me put myself under R—Admin Zephyr’s orders. ‘cause I’m gonna go stir-crazy and he’d probably enjoy ordering me around, for old time’s sake.” There’s a small pause. “I mean, if it’s okay with you.” 

You consider saying no, just out of a tiny spiteful urge to just deny him what he wants. Then you remind yourself you are better than that and force yourself to be rational. It’s troubling, how rational the request is. He technically outranks your own Head Administrator, not by blood, but by skill, if he truly does all the work he’s supposed to, running a ship the size of the _Leviathan_. You’re still not quite sure that’s true, through from what you saw ‘last time’, he does at least make a show of it. 

“If he will have you,” you say, and belatedly remember that for some strange reason, your Head Administrator is openly fond of Ampora. “I will not tolerate insubordination in my ship.” 

It’s only for a second, and had you not been looking for it, you would have missed it entirely, but you catch the sneer tugging at the corner of his lips and feel your own purse in disapproval. He doesn’t have any right to be upset or annoyed, about being reminded of the truth. Nonetheless, you say nothing as the sneer is replaced by a gratingly false cheer that seems to be his chosen mask to pretend he didn’t understand your implications. 

“Don’t worry, Captain Zahhak, I’m sure you’ll soon forget I’m here at all.” 

You sincerely doubt it, but you dismiss him with a gesture and watch him stalk briskly away. You hope you haven’t committed a grave mistake, but you decide to trust Zephyr’s judgment. The greenblood has yet to let you down. 

  


* * *

  


twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling centaursTesticle [CT]

TA: 2o  
TA: eriidan iin your 2hiip, huh  
CT: D--> Captor  
CT: D--> Can we please not  
CT: D--> Just this once  
TA: ehehehehehehehehehehe  
TA: dont get your leggiing2 iin a twii2t  
TA: iim ju2t here two remiind you that  
TA: fuckiing iidiiot  
CT: D--> I beg your pardon  
TA: not you  
TA: eriidan  
TA: he2 a fuckiing iidiiot  
CT: D--> While I agree wholeheartedly with the sentiment  
CT: D--> I find myself wary about what might have prompted such e%clamation  
TA: he ju2t met your admiin2 mate2priit2  
TA: auspiicee2  
TA: whatever the fuck tho2e two are  
CT: D--> Oh  
CT: D--> Oh dear  
CT: D--> Should I  
TA: nah  
TA: here  


\-- twinArmageddons [TA] sent centaursTesticle [CT] the file "themoney2hot.mp4" –-

CT: D--> I am not opening that  
TA: you 2hould  
TA: iitd cheer you up  
TA: fuck, iit cheered me up  
TA: and for 2ome rea2on ii liike the a22hole the2e day2  
CT: D--> I do not understand why  
CT: D--> Considering all he has done, to your matesprit and yourself  
TA: ff ii2 a biig giirl, 2he can make her own decii2iions and 2o can ii  
TA: iit2 mo2tly ju2t water under the briidge  
TA: at lea2t untiil he fuck2 up agaiin   
CT: D--> When, you mean  
TA: iif  
TA: beliieve iit or not  
TA: iit 2eem2 pretty unliikely that he wiill, lately  
CT: D--> I find that hard to believe  
TA: yeah, becau2e that2 the only hard thiing you have for hiim  
CT: D--> E%cuse me  
TA: anyway  
TA: the poiint ii2 that iif you break hiim, kk ii2 goiing two tear you apart, liimb by liimb  
TA: or hell wii2h he could  
TA: becau2e my dumba22 ance2tor probably wont leave much of you left once he2 done  
CT: D--> I am well aware of whose affections he has swayed to his side  
TA: good  
TA: becau2e iit would ruiin ffs day iif you died  
TA: the la2t thiing 2he need2 ii2 another bloody ciiviil war  
CT: D--> Your concern is wholly misplaced, I assure you  
CT: D--> I am perfectly capable of returning him to his matesprit and his moirail without incident  
TA: dont get pii22y wiith me  
TA: iim ju2t doiing my job, meddliing and keeping tabs on all potentiial dii2a2ter2 ii 2ee  
CT: D--> Are we done here  
TA: yeah, good luck  
TA: but 2eriiou2ly  
TA: thiink before you 2tiick your bulge iin that  
TA: ii dont thiink anyone really know2 where iit2 been

twinArmageddons [TA] ceased trolling centaursTesticle [CT]

CT: D--> What

  


* * *

  


You resist temptation and do not watch the video Captor sent you, until you catch a fleeting glimpse of Ampora sporting the most amazing black eye in the history of trollkind as a whole. Then you discreetly retire back to your personal quarters, take a deep breath and watch as Tallie Nanshe, captain of one of your best warships, decks him a punch that is pure poetry in motion. It doesn’t so much knock Ampora off his feet as it sends him sprawling several feet back and down a short flight of stairs. 

You allow yourself thirteen seconds of unrestrained laughter and grudgingly admit Captor was right. 

That really cheered you up. 

Then you compose yourself and remind yourself of your priorities, resolving to ignore Ampora as much as possible during his stay in your domain. 

It can’t possibly be that hard, can it? 

  


* * *

  


After the fourth night, you’re done sorting out the last details that always come up after you leave a station and shift into fast travel, so you decide to sate your own curiosity, for the good of your crew and your sanity, and head out to find Ampora. You will sit down and have dinner and be civilized trolls, and you will put the fear of you in him in such a way that he doesn’t dare upset the delicate workings of your ship. For this purpose, you stalk towards the high ranking quarters in the ship, outwardly ignoring the scrambled salutes that meet you along the way, but secretly proud of the punctuality and sheer military perfection that your men have achieved. 

You knock on the door to the block you assigned Ampora, one of the most luxurious ones in the ship, and set to wait. 

Two minutes later, you’re tired of waiting and override the door with your ID, stepping inside to find the place pristine in a way that suggests Ampora hasn’t actually spent a single moment in it, and you feel a kernel of irritation ignite into rightful indignation. You didn’t have to give him such a nice block, but you did, out of consideration to who his matesprit is and the kind of life he must reasonably be used to. The least the ungrateful bastard could do is actually _use_ it. Without any other clues as for his whereabouts, you head out to find your Head Administrator and ask him for some input on this infuriating behavior. You like Russel Zephyr, he’s a solid, hardworking troll with an excellent curriculum before he joined your crew. A sheer unflappable mountain of competence, as far as you’re aware, and someone you feel you can trust implicitly to not screw you over. It’s rare, these days, to find a troll with such exemplary morals and work ethic. You think you two understand each other well: he does his job and doesn’t give you unnecessary grief. In return, you give him free reign to do as he pleases and trust he has his reasons for it. 

Zephyr is out working this shift, as he usually works the opposite one you do, but he often leaves an itinerary in his block so you’ll know when to find him if you need him, since you are not quite comfortable navigating the convoluted corridors where he often carries out his job. When you open the door, however, you find you no longer need to find your Head Administrator, as the very source of your annoyance is curled up in his recuperacoon. You stand there, just staring for a moment, as Ampora shifts about in the sopor. 

“Rus, if it ain’t on fire, it ain’t my problem,” he mutters sleepily, and you feel another stab of irritation nesting in your gut. 

“What are you doing here?” You snap, sharp and unforgiving, and you get a mean-spirited, private thrill in the way Ampora shoots up and smacks his head on the side of the recuperacoon. 

“Sweet grub mother tits, _what the fuck_ , Zahhak.” 

“Language,” you bite out, standing to your full height and quietly relishing in the strange disparity between you. 

Not enough, however, that you allow yourself to remember Ampora is naked. Because that is a thing that does not interest you in the least and you simply do not care about it. He looks odd though, without his glasses, squinting at you and dripping sopor down slightly too thin limbs. The ridiculous steel jewelry hanging off his fins looks muted, and you hate yourself for thinking gold would suit someone of his station better, just as you quickly remind yourself he _has_ no station. He’s tripping all over your careful mental categories, simply by existing. 

You are the only one, within the Empress’ inner circle that still defends the importance of tradition and the hemospectrum, though you are of course willing to embrace the reforms the Empress has in mind. The higher standing you want for highbloods is more along the lines of higher standards, than simply endless privileges. Because you truly believe your brethren to be capable of more, if nothing else because of the experience that long lives will provide. You command highbloods and lowbloods alike, and you know this to be true. 

And then there’s Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora, whose blood was always his only saving grace, as far as you were concerned, consistently proving himself the exception to the norm, as far as the greatness inherent to the higher castes went. Always a vulgar, crass, cowardly disaster. Always a disgrace. 

“Are we really doing this?” He asks, running a hand through his hair and smearing bright green sopor against the violet strands. “ _Really_? Because I’m naked,” you flinch minutely and hope he doesn’t notice, “and half-asleep and if you give me three hours I’ll actually remember anything you say.” 

“You have a block of your own,” you say instead, refusing to rise to the bait, “and I will not have you inconveniencing my men with your bullying—“ 

“ _Fuck you_.” 

You’re slightly taken aback by the venomousness of his tone, and then school your features into a scowl as he slides off the sopor and onto the floor. You keep your eyes on his face even as he steps closer, eyes burning with outrage. You make yourself not notice the little details, like the binder around his chest, hiding his gills from sight, or the single golden ring hanging off his left nipple. 

“You will not—“ 

“No, _you_ shut up,” he snarls, baring thin, needle-like teeth and seemingly swelling in size. “You don’t like me, Zahhak. That’s okay. I don’t really have that much love for you either. But it’ll be a fucking frozen day in hell when I let you say _I’m bullying my best friend_.” 

“If you expect me to believe—“ 

“I expect you to be a fucking adult,” he says, tone as frigid as you’ve ever heard coming from him, and for a moment, he looks the part of the arrogant seadweller and the deepest corners of your mind are screaming at you to submit and yield to him. Then you conquer the impulse and actually listen to his words. “It’s your ship, and I’m under your command so long I’m in it, but my personal life is none of your fucking business and you _will_ keep your fucking nose out of it.” 

“My men are my responsibility,” you say, trying to use your height to your advantage and make him cower him as you loom. 

Instead of stepping back, he steps forward, fins flared threateningly and teeth bared. He’s almost close enough to smear sopor all over your uniform and you don’t know what you’ll do if he dares, but it won’t be wise. 

“And he’s my—“ 

The door opens. 

“Erid—“ 

There’s a very loud silence in the following moment, as the owner of the block stands in the doorway, taking in the situation. It occurs to you the situation must look rather unfortunate, all things considered. And then Zephyr’s eyes slide half mast, face turning long suffering. You watch in fascination as Ampora’s fins drop back, expression chastised. You grudgingly consider revising your impressions on the relationship between the two. 

“Is something the matter, sir?” Zephyr asks you, pointedly not looking at Ampora. 

“That is precisely what I would like to know,” you say, refusing to let a single sliver of emotion through, “I trust Admin Ampora is not imposing on you.” 

“Not at all, sir,” Zephyr shrugs, smiling politely. “Will that be all, sir?” 

You have the weirdest impression that the man is actually kicking you out of the block. But you know Zephyr, he wouldn’t dare do something so uncouth. Talking with Ampora is giving you ideas, you decide, and that’s why you should probably stop talking with him all together. 

“Yes,” you incline your head, hair rustling as you do, “I will see you at the meeting tomorrow, Admin Zephyr.” You can’t help but sneer a little. “Admin Ampora.” 

Infuriatingly, Ampora seems to no longer care about your presence, staring intently at Zephyr. The greenblood nods pleasantly and you turn to leave. From the corner of your eye, just as the door closes behind you, you think you catch a glimpse of Zephyr pulling Ampora down by a horn to snarl in his face. The thought amuses and troubles you in equal amounts, so you decide to find the time and talk with Nepeta about all this. 

You can hardly wait to be rid of him. 

  


* * *

  


CT: D--> In conclusion  
CT: D--> Mr Zahhak would like it to be known that he can only take so much of this  
CT: D--> Before he is forced to do something drastic  
AC: :33 < *the furrocious moirail swings her tail side by side and contemplates the best way to tackle this pawful situation*  
AC: :33 < *while politely ignoring the darker sides of the shipping wall*  
CT: D--> Please don’t  
CT: D--> I mean  
CT: D--> Mr Zahhak politely and not desperately begs Ms Leijon to 100k away from the shipping wall  
CT: D--> Anything but the shipping wall  
AC: :33 < *the intrepid huntress will go where her heart takes her!*  
AC: :33 < *and she will make up her mind once she sees him in purrson*  
CT: D--> What

arsenicCatnip [AC] ceased trolling centaursTesticle [CT]

CT: D--> Fiddlesticks

  


* * *

  


It is purely coincidental, you tell yourself, that you end up running an inspection during the shift Ampora is working. Purely coincidental and not premeditated at all. Nonetheless, he grimaces when he sees you, but otherwise conducts himself with impeccable professionalism. 

It sends a constant pulse of rage through your system, for some reason. 

You decide not to think of said reason, and instead focus on work. Work has always been a soothing balm for your nerves, and you find yourself immerse in an actually productive conversation with the man, as you discuss the handling of the CA class warships under your command. You find yourself somewhat mystified by the way he gets carried away talking about this or that detail, quoting numbers off the top of his head. It reminds you of the so called ‘last time’ you saw him, except he’s _lucid_. The violet eyes behind the glasses are focused and intent, but not manic. He walks you down a rattling catwalk suspended beneath the hangar, fussing over every little thing, and you begin to realize this is what he’s like, in his element. He defers to Zephyr’s authority and yours without a second thought, in the same breath he points out the differences between how things are done in the _Morrigan_ and how they’re done in the _Leviathan_. There’s pride in how he carries himself, clearly, but not arrogance, and the difference is both subtle and gargantuan. You don’t know what to make of it. 

You blink as Nepeta all but materializes behind him. 

“Mr. Ampurra.” 

Ampora shrieks like a wiggler and throws his tablet in the air, then dissolves into a filthy swearing fit as he dives off the side of the catwalk to catch it, nearly falling off himself. He clutches the thing to his chest, like a shield, and hisses at your moirail, while Nepeta cracks up laughing in amusement. Sweeps ago, you would be threatening him for daring to speak to her in such a tone, but these days Nepeta appreciates handling her battles on her own, and you’ve learned to step in only when she asks you to. She’s one of the deadliest trolls in the galaxy, after all, it wouldn’t do to coddle her, for all you want to. 

You don’t even wonder how she got here. Nepeta goes where she wants, very often without being noticed and scaring trolls half to death while she does it. It’s part of what makes her so terrifying, she could be _anywhere_ and most of the time people only realize she’s there when it’s too late. She’s adapted her games and her hunts into the larger picture with an ease you envy a little. She’s become a laughassassin ideal, without ever even meeting another laughassassin, but she’s happy and extremely competent at what she does, so you try not to fuss and fret too much. You allow yourself the faintest of smirks as Ampora finally calms down enough to stand up straight again, only to slouch down and look disturbingly meek. 

“Er,” he says after a moment, as Nepeta pins him down with a predatory smile, “hi. Sorry about that.” He coughs awkwardly, visibly trying not to squirm. In your mind, you can still see Nepeta’s tail twitching playfully as she delights in his discomfort. It’s terribly uncouth and you should probably put a stop to it. Instead, you content yourself to watch. “Startled me a little there.” 

“Did I?” Nepeta asks, with exaggerated coyness that nonetheless makes Ampora sweat a little. “Maybe there’s something itching in your conscience, Mr. Ampurra.” 

“Maybe,” he laughs nervously, voice little more than a croak. “I’m… I’m just gonna let you and Zah—Captain Zahhak talk then. Since you’re here. Excuse me.” 

He scurries away before you can say anything about it, head tucked in his shoulders and posture disgustingly pathetic. You allow your smirk to melt into a fond smile. 

“Well,” you say, as you bend down to wrap your arms around her, “that was interesting.” 

Nepeta nuzzles your chest, purring loud enough to put every piece of machinery in the ship to shame. You feel the knots of stress and worry loosen up their hold on your spine, as you breathe out a sigh of relief against her hair. 

“He was making you twitchy,” she mutters, claws kneading into the taunt muscles of your lower back hard enough it threatens to make your knees buckle, “I don’t like that.” 

“Was he?” You chuckle wryly, finally letting her go. “I didn’t notice. It’s of no importance,” you ignore the way she arches an eyebrow at you, firmly refusing to dwell into things outside the sanctity of your quarters and the pile of robotics there. “Will you be staying long?” 

“Maybe,” she smiles, in a way that hurts and means no, but you pretend it’s yes anyway. “We have to talk, don’t we?” 

You know you do, but you don’t look forward to it one bit. 

  


* * *

  


You have an uncanny ability to go unnoticed if you really want to. You don’t know why or how, but if you angle your body a certain way, most trolls tend to look past you without a second thought. More than once, Nepeta has teased you thoroughly about it, wishing you could teach her the trick as it’d be useful for her little escapades. You’d gladly do so, if it meant affording her extra protection of some sort, but you’re not even sure how you manage it. At the moment, you’re sitting in a corner of the maintenance crew bar, angling your body a certain way and watching Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora roughhouse around your men like he belongs there. 

“Oh, shut up, Rus, everyone knows you keep me around just because I can reach the top shelves.” 

Zephyr kicks Ampora’s shin. Ampora, miraculously, doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he outright laughs, seemingly delighted by a joke you are not privy to. 

“Well, I sure as fuck don’t keep you around because of your dashing personality, Eridan.” 

The seadweller sticks his tongue out and the entire bar roars with laughter as he makes a show to be miffed and offended by the remark. Alcohol is flowing freely, as it tends to when trolls have free shifts, and people are talking loud and lewdly, as they play various lowblood games. You sit in silence, unseen, and study the way Ampora laughs and cajoles your men, and the way they laugh and cajole right back. You notice the fact he’s sitting close to Captain Nanshe, and if you hadn’t seen video of her punching him off his feet, you wouldn’t believe the woman ever had any kind of ill will towards the seadweller. They cackle obnoxiously about something or another, sharing trivial stories and toasting messily after each one. You realize everyone but Nanshe, Anshar, Ampora and yourself are tealbloods or lower. Nanshe and Anshar make a habit to follow Zephyr around when they’re not otherwise occupied, so their presence isn’t noteworthy on its own, but something inside your churns when you realize precisely what’s been bothering you about Ampora’s attitude. 

He belongs among lowbloods. 

He mingles with them with an ease that sets your teeth on edge. 

He should be the highest ranking troll aboard the _Morrigan_ , by blood alone, and yet here he is, fooling about drunkenly and letting Zephyr pull on an invisible leash every now and then. It troubles you, the ease with which he does as he’s told, without complaint. It rattles you, the easy smiles and the relaxed, loose posture and the significance of him sitting at the greenblood’s left, which you’re starting to realize might be unconscious, rather than a calculated gesture to appease both Nanshe and Anshar. 

Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora was always a lousy highblood, when you were children, focused on the wrong parts of history and a mistaken interpretation of what highblood privilege even meant. But this is worse. This is disgusting and your talk with Nepeta is not helping at all because your insides are twisting into knots over something you can hardly put to words. 

The laughter dies abruptly as you storm out of the block, clearly noticed by everyone present. 

You don’t care, you’ve changed your mind and would very much like another hour or two in a pile, trying to make sense of the turmoil in your mind. 

  


* * *

  


By the third week of having Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora in your ship, Nepeta has left after giving you a stern lecture about feelings, honesty and thinking things through. She didn’t once mention your rather unfortunate sojourn into the land of _Aradia Megido is not who you thought she was and she’s also coincidentally way out of your league now or ever_ , for which you’re grateful, but you can’t help your thoughts as they instinctively head that way. She also refused to make a decisive judgment on the matter, which has only made you think about this more, rather than less. You respect Karkat Vantas a good deal and gladly bow down to his leadership when necessary. You respect Sollux Captor’s knowledge as unrivalled in many areas, simply by virtue of… well, what he’s done to himself to attain such knowledge. But in your heart of hearts, Nepeta Leijon continues to be the sun around whom you orbit and whose word you trust and believe in to the exclusion of everyone else’s. 

It’d never happen, because of who you are and how things work now, but you know you’d choose Nepeta over everything else, including rank and the Empress and the Empire and the Fleet, without a second thought or even the smallest hesitation. 

So the only reason you’re doing this, is because Nepeta Leijon has decided to withhold judgment on whether Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora is still the same disgraceful disaster you once knew, or not. Vantas blind devotion or Captor’s acid approval mean less than Nepeta’s most lukewarm consideration. So you set out to find out for yourself, trying to ignore the twisted knot of confused emotions nested uncomfortably in your gut. You have a scientific mind. You can handle being proven wrong. You don’t expect to, but you know you’re certain you can handle it, in the sheer unexpected chance it happens. Besides, he will be gone in a week, and you probably won’t see him again for sweeps. 

“Oh fuck,” it’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth, as he enters your quarters, and you can already tell this is going to be a trying morning. “I didn’t think this was formal, shit. Sorry. I just—” 

You look at him, in his uniform, battered and stained from a full shift working, because you’ve find out, to your extreme confusion, that Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora is a hands-on troll, when it comes to things. Zephyr is much more comfortable delegating tasks, and like all your officers, he’s always absolutely pristine. You don’t really know what Ampora does, running errands for Zephyr, but it always ends up ruining his clothes somehow. It’s very troublesome. You also realize that, out of sheer habit, you changed into your dress uniform, as you instinctively associate it with hard decisions and taxing conversations. 

You entertain the idea that he’s feeling self-conscious, before you dismiss the thought as ridiculous. 

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s really not, but you’re already second guessing this and you might not pull through if you give him enough time to go and dress properly. “Merely mind your language and sit down.” 

“Right,” he says, moving in such a way it brings a wounded beast to mind, wary and alert, but he does obey. “What… er, what can I do for you?” 

You study him for a moment, thinking over your words carefully, before you purposely take a seat on the same side of the desk as he is. You can all but see the gears twisting and turning in his head, as he tries to process why you’d do such a thing. He knows highblood protocol as well as you do, or he used to, at least. Just as you start to wonder if he’ll understand, you see him shift his posture to match yours, which would be an outrageous offense if you had not initiated the whole thing. Negotiation, your body says, without blood. His posture is a subtle not-quite mirror of yours, and you want to be pleased by the precise position of his fingers and the careful angle of his chin, because they not only mean he agrees to negotiate, but that he’s letting you choose the terms. But you’re not pleased, because you’ve realized, watching him and your men and the way he carries himself, that even if he can still pull off the motions, there’s very little of the highblood pride he used to have left in him. 

It should please you, in a way, because you understand that pride was precisely what led to his downfall. But it doesn’t because it still goes against your principles and the way you see and understand the world. The Empire is changing, bit by bit, with the graceful guidance from the Empress, but you can’t help but be the last bastion of resistance, the closest to her that has some stake in preserving the old highblood ways. The history and tradition and honor of millennia that shaped and gave identity to the highest castes, it is not something you can let go of just like that. You live balancing those values with the reality of sweeping reforms and a thousand little things in a contradictory mess that only Nepeta can make sense of. You understand the importance of the changes working their way through the Empire, you really do. You understand better now, than you did when you were six and picked up fights with Ampora over a feud neither of you had any real interest on. But you also understand that there are things that could be lost with them, things that no one else seems to care for or even realize are there. Serket has never really cared about the nobility of her blood, not beyond what benefitted her, and to lose her privileges only means to find new ones elsewhere. Everything is a game, for her, everything is just a matter of rolling the right dice. Makara might have taken his Ancestor’s title and command of the subjugglator faithful, but in the end all he cares about is what his moirail wants and the prophecies of his ridiculous cult. And the Empress is wise beyond her years, but she exists in an entirely different reality than you. 

After much thought, you can admit to yourself that part of your resentment towards Ampora is that, once upon a time, you thought he understood things. Things you can’t explain to the others. Things that don’t need to be said, among highbloods. When you were children and practiced the old forms together, without admitting that was what you were doing, and you hated him on principle because he was a seadweller and inherently better than you, at the bottom of it you respected him. And then he changed, or you got to know him better, and the respect eroded away because he knew those same things you did, but he didn’t understand them. Not the way you thought he did, at least. And when you found yourself alone, surrounded by lowbloods and rebels, and you had to court endless highbloods, you always thought that was not meant to be your job, but his. He was the highest blood supporting the Empress, he was the scion of a worthy if tragic bloodline. He knew how it worked, and he had everything to make it work, and he still ruined it. 

And twenty sweeps later, here he is, declawed and defanged, more of a lowblood in a highblood’s skin, than anything else. And of course, Vantas and Captor approve of it, think it for the best, when he acts like one of their own. 

It bothers you. 

It bothers you _a lot_. 

And you know why but you’re not even sure you can handle the implications behind it. Not even sure you’d want to. The only reason you’re doing this is because Nepeta refused to make the choice for you, so now you’re going to have to do something about it yourself. 

“I don’t understand you,” you say, just before the silence stretches long enough to be an overt offense. 

Ampora chokes back a laugh. 

“I… yeah, that’s… that’s a very popular club you just joined there, Zahhak,” he smiles thinly, wryness taking over his expression. “ _I_ don’t understand me.” 

“What were you doing down there, when I found you?” You press, ignoring the attempt at humor and instead abusing the fact he gave you the reins of the conversation. 

“Getting laid,” he replies, without skipping a bit. “Or trying to. You know. Until you literally wrenched the prospect off my lap.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know, why did you?” He feigns ignorance, and you’re infuriated with him, for knowing the steps of the dance and with yourself for being pleased that he’s not making this easy at all. “I mean, yeah, she had a knife, but you know I’ve dealt with worse.” 

“Because your matesprit entrusted your safety to me,” you snap, even though you don’t have to, and then go on before he can derail further: “And the question refers to your motives for doing such a thing.” 

“What, doing my part for the Empire? Being a concerned citizen and helping out fellow trolls when the time comes?” 

“ _Prostituting_ yourself!” 

The expression on his face is kind of hysterical. If you weren’t profoundly upset with yourself for the outburst – not even five minutes, and he’s managed to make you lose your temper, how utterly disgraceful of you – you might have been tempted to laugh. He blinks at you, fins spreading and folding back as his mouth opens and closes several times. 

“…did you just call me a _whore_?” 

And you’d been doing so well, too. 

“With your behavior—“ You begin, trying to ignore the flush spreading over your cheeks and the feeling of sweat sliding down the back of your neck. 

“Slut, Zahhak,” _and he rolls his eyes at you_ , “the word you’re looking for is _slut_. I don’t fill pails for money, I do it for fun.” 

This conversation was such a grave mistake, you’ve never regretted anything more in your life. You soldier on, regardless. 

“You have a matesprit—“ 

“Which is why I only do black flings, yes,” he arches an eyebrow at you, folding one leg over the other in a dismissive fashion, and then looks down at his claws, feigning disinterest. “And if you ever imply again that I’d cheat on Kar, there won’t be enough left to fill a fucking thimble when I’m done with you.” 

There’s a moment of silence as the threat sinks in properly. 

“I don’t understand you,” you try again, frustrated with yourself and him and the whole damn universe at the moment. 

“You made that abundantly clear, yes,” he drawls dryly, shifting his posture again and flicking his wrist in a way that telegraphs his patience is running short. 

It’s laughable, really, all things considered, and you’re so _annoyed_ at him, because now you know for certain he’s using those little signs to mess with you. Or indulge you, you’re not quite sure. He’s still signaling you’re in control of this… negotiation, in those subtle, quiet ways that contradict the way he addresses you. He’s making you feel foolish and all you really want, right now, is to take it out on him. To make him as mad as he’s making you. To know you can elicit the same kind of response as he does in you, that you have the same power. 

“I am trying,” you say instead, shifting your shoulders so that the gesture is more conciliatory than aggressive, though it probably doesn’t help that you’re wearing formal clothes and he’s not. Belatedly, you realize you’re pulling rank without meaning to and this wouldn’t be a problem if he weren’t such a _disaster_. “To understand you. You’re not helping.” 

“Damn right I ain’t,” he says, and the entire left side of your body twitches in response to his tone. “You want something from me, Zahhak. Just come out and tell me what it is, you don’t have to make a production out of it. Fuck, you can probably just order me to do it.” 

You almost say you don’t want anything from him, but the truth is that you do. You just wish you didn’t. 

“It’s not something I can order you to give,” you hiss between clenched teeth, and you force yourself to relax your jaw because it’s been sweeps since you’ve broken a tooth and you will not give Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora the satisfaction. “Your behavior in that regard is perhaps the wrong starting point.” 

“Yeah, maybe we should talk about something else other than my sexlife.” 

You dearly, desperately need a towel. You refuse to take it out of sheer spite. 

“Your friendship with Admin Zephyr, then.” 

You realize that was the wrong thing to say, even worse than what you’d said before, just by the feral look that ghosts over Ampora’s face before he can mask it. That, you realize, is the look of a troll willing to murder. 

“What about it?” He asks, pretending to be indifferent about the subject, and it’s almost convincing if not for the subtle threat in the way he folds his hands on his lap. 

“I merely find your attachment to him bewildering.” You shrug delicately, shoulders barely moving as your hair rustles. “The… general state of your life is in itself bewildering to me.” 

“Because I’m not dead?” There’s a nasty undertone there that you consider acknowledging for a moment before deciding the situation is awkward enough as it is. 

“Because you seem content with it,” you say, settling on the most innocuous answer you can muster. 

Ampora chokes on another laugh. 

“Well, that’s because I am.” 

“Surely you must find yourself wanting more,” you stare, not quite convinced despite the staggering sincerity of his tone. 

“What the fuck do I need?” The use of the word need instead of want surprises you, and you take notice of both it and your reaction to it. Ampora shrugs. “I’ve got a matesprit that loves me enough to yell at me if I fuck up and a moirail that will as soon smack me, if plain shooshpapping ain’t doing the trick. I have a nice ship and a good enough crew and the list of people who want me dead is not nearly as long as it was, a decade or two ago.” 

“But your blood—” 

“Yes, Zahhak,” and there is, the way he narrows his eyes and squares his shoulders, the flash of fury in his eyes. You can almost taste success, when his words disarm you. “The fucking royal swill in my veins that’ll ensure I outlive everyone I give a damn about.” The look he gives you is pure contempt. “But what do _you_ know, right? The Empress will ensure your moirail will live as long as you do.” 

You get the feeling he’s not talking about Vantas or the Helmsman, both of whom will live on well past their lifespans, given the Empress’ interest in them. And you’re taken aback by the thought, because the Ampora you knew couldn’t care less about the rest of the world. 

“You used to be proud of your blood, before.” 

Bizarrely, he smiles at you, just a small twitch of his lips. It makes your gastric sack lurch unpleasantly. 

“I used to be proud of a lot of things, before,” he turns his hands, palms up and fingers spread, and for the first time you notice how skeletal they look, without the assortment of rings he used to wear. “And look at what it did to me.” 

Before you can answer, however, the lights flash red and the alarms howl. Ampora is on his feet at once, just as you are, expression wiped clean of all emotion. 

The ship is under attack. 

“We will continue this later,” you say, though you’re not really sure you will. 

“Yeah, sure,” he replies, in a tone that gives you hope that you won’t actually have to talk about this at all. 

  


* * *

  


The bridge is a very choreographed chaos when you step into it. You take your place at the head of it and clear your mind of everything as you take in their reports. 

“Hostiles, sir, confirmed Truvian. Two small cruisers, at full capacity.” 

“Four scout ships down, the rest are folding back.” 

“CC line ETA deployment forty seconds.” 

“CA line awaiting clearance in sector B, ETA deployment three minutes fifteen seconds.” 

“CL line awaiting deployment.” 

“DD line awaiting deployment.” 

“Auxiliary helmsmen on standby, full engine power rerouted to weapon systems.” 

“ETA for contact, four minutes thirty seconds.” 

“Maintenance crew in position, non-essential personnel secured and locked away.” 

The screens light up with lines and tags representing the battlefield. Two Truvian cruisers shouldn’t be too much for the _Morrigan_ to handle, though you are somewhat worried to have run into them here, so close to an inhabited colony. You will have to speak with the Empress about this, once this mess is over. You take precisely ten seconds to study the terrain, so to speak, and project the course of the battle in your mind. The bridge is silent as you do, trolls waiting for you to give the word. 

“Deploy the CL first, classic 26 formation,” you say after the moment has passed and you’re in control of yourself again. You keep your voice even and neutral, because you know your voice is being broadcast directly to the warship captains, and the last thing they need is a leader who is panicking. You’ve been in enough battles that you’ve learned to stop caring, when the panic sets in. “The DD will cover up the back and concentrate on the cruisers. Fifteen seconds later, deploy CC to guard the flank. CA will wait aboard until instructed but get them clearance to deploy if necessary.” 

There’s two additional seconds of silence, before the bridge erupts in activity. There are nearly two hundred different channels open at once, Captain reciting their launching protocols, gate control going through each step. The sirens are still howling, but you’ve long learned to tune them out in the heat of the moment. 

“I’m surprised you’re not down there,” you say, out of the corner of your mouth, when you see Zephyr sitting in the seat reserved for the Head Admin, behind a wall of monitors displaying the status of every gate and every maintenance team in them. 

“I might as well be,” he says, smiling wryly, but before you can even decide to comment, the first impact comes, decidedly sooner than anticipated. 

Trolls yell over communications as dozens of smaller warships appear as tiny dots in your screens. No two battles are the same, but you’ve learned the way to handle them, by now. You keep your voice even as you direct the flood of warships, though it’s a delicate balance, since each captain must make their own decisions and at best you can only coordinate the flow and adapt to what happens. Truvians are well known for their mobility, but trolls are feared for your brutality. You watch as slowly the dots designating Truvian forces vanish steadily faster than the ones representing trolls. 

In moments like this, when you’re all but holding several thousand lives in your hands, you wish you had gone to the Academy. You wish they had taught you the proper way to handle the guilt every time a ship is destroyed or perhaps a better way to deal with the paralyzing fear that stubbornly clings to the back of your throat and threatens to make you sway. All you know about commanding a ship you learned on the fly, eyes closed and hoping for the best. You’ve read thousands of pages on strategy combat and statistics and history and anything that might have helped, but the feeling of inadequacy never leaves. 

Still, your stoicism might be your greatest virtue, as your men feel reassured by your lack of emotion in battle. If only one of them could read your mind, the charade would fall, but Serket used to joke that you are the anti-psychic, impervious to any probing. It’s your one useful skill, you suppose, as things stand these days. You tinker about with Helmsman technology and other things you think might help, but you know you’ll never be able to dedicate yourself fully to it, so long as the Empire needs figureheads from the rebellion. You’ll never be an archeradicator, either, if nothing else because the Empress has no use for conquering forces now. All you can be is the damn best captain in the fleet, and hope to god you’re doing the right thing. 

“We have a rogue! I repeat, we have a rogue!” 

If you could afford to, you would swear, loudly and profusely, as a Truvian dot zips around the screen, aiming straight at the _Morrigan_ itself. Over the communication channels, several warships try to lay claim on the attacker, but it’s a smaller ship than the others, faster and more nimble. 

“Fire at will,” you say, and you’re sure no one around you even suspects how terrified you really are, as you watch that ship continue to not disappear. 

“Oh fuck, brace for impact.” 

You crush the armrest of your chair as that tiny dot slams straight into the side of the Morrigan, though the ship doesn’t even shake from the hit. 

“It’s in the hangar,” Zephyr hisses at you, then snarls at his monitors as if he were down there and able to snarl at the structural damage that’s piling with each second. He hisses a breath after a moment. “It has been dealt with. Commencing containment measures.” 

“One cruiser down, sir, the other is preparing to abscond; warships on the fringe, awaiting orders.” 

You stare at the screen without really seeing it, doing the math in your head. Half a victory is better than a full defeat, but you’re still unhappy about it because it bugs you. Truvians are not reckless for no reason, and those cruisers must have been here for a reason, especially considering how far away from their own territory they are. You could let them go, but you have a sinking feeling you shouldn’t. That it might be worse if you do. 

“Order them back, we’re hunting it down as soon as all warships are docked.” 

  


* * *

  


You’re doing a cursory exploration of the damage sustained by the battle, when you run into Ampora. He’s running around the damaged hangar, barking orders at the maintenance crew and… 

Oh. 

Oh _fuck_. 

By the time you realize why the seadweller is keeping a hand pressed tight to his face, you’ve come to accept you are essentially a dead man walking. Vantas is going to murder you. If Captor senior doesn’t do it first, that is. 

Ampora doesn’t seem to care, though, storming up and down the various corridors and catwalks, leaving behind a surreptitious trail of blood that no one really pays attention to. You take a moment to appreciate the sheer poetic and metaphoric value behind such precious blood muddled by careless feet stepping on it, before you make your way down there, making sure not to step on any of it. 

“Ampora.” 

It looks worse from up close. There’s a jagged cut across his face, from his right cheek right across his nose to the other side, muscle and bone exposed, and you have the sinking feeling that the only reason half his nose hasn’t fallen off is because he’s holding it in place. Your insides churn unpleasantly, though you are by no means unfamiliar with that type of injury. Part of you is silently screeching about contamination and the risk of infection, but the rest of you is infuriatingly impressed by the sheer aplomb required to just shrug off that kind of injury. The Ampora you knew, back in Alternia, cried and whined at the smallest scrap. Your one and only fight with him, when you were children, ended up with a broken arm and him leaving you alone in the beach, hating yourself and your victory because that wasn’t how it was supposed to go. And now here he is, putting his work above all else with a determination you’ve only seen in Zephyr before. You twitch irritably, realizing you can’t even accuse him of using his injury for sympathy, when he’s so busy ordering other people around and making a show that there’s nothing wrong. You wonder quietly how exactly he got hurt, each scenario you come up with more violent than the last, and how many of the trolls now unquestioningly following his orders were there to see it happen. 

“ _What?_ ” He snaps, and you jolt back to reality. “I’m missing half my fucking face and I’m covered in shitty alien guts and I’m about to lose my goddamn lunch, Zahhak. Either stop staring and say something or _just leave me the fuck alone already!_ ” 

Trolls around you suddenly find themselves twice as busy. You feel yourself twitch. 

“You require medical attention,” you say, keeping your voice steady, even though there’s blood flowing steadily down his fingers and you can’t stop staring. He opens his mouth and the way his face just _shifts_ under his hand makes you twitch again. “That’s an order, Admin Ampora.” 

“Sometimes,” he replies after a moment, shoulders tense, “I really want to punch you. And then I remember that’d probably break my hand, so I refrain. But the urge is there. And it’s as STRONG as you are.” 

You feel your lips twitch somewhat, but he does start walking in the general direction of the medbay. It might not be too late for him, perhaps. Now you need to go and figure out the true extent of the damage and look after your crew as they prepare for the incoming chase and the subsequent hunt of the remaining enemy cruiser. 

  


* * *

  


“Oh my fucking god, why would you do this to me?” 

It takes you a moment to realize Ampora is not, in fact, curled up in Zephyr’s recuperacoon, but rather sprawled indecently on the concupiscent platform, one arm thrown over his face and the other… Well. You look up at the ceiling, trying not to think of the engorged bulge coiling between his legs. Or where his other hand might be. 

“You’re my responsibility,” you say, eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling, as you feel sweat soak through your clothes. 

“I turned down a foursome tonight, you know,” Ampora says, conversationally, and it almost drowns out the sound of lubrication hitting the inside of a pail. You feel yourself sway in place. “Really fucking amazing sex, Zahhak. And I turned it down. Because I have a fucking conscience now, and Karkat would fucking cry if I ever fooled around red with anyone. And then, while me and my hand are making up for lost time, because they blew half my face off and then they fucking stapled it back together, and you don’t fucking understand how hard I was _throbbing_ as they did, you walk in. Without even a fucking knock.” 

“I’ll just—“ 

“I should make you watch.” He does something, you dare not look, but it _squelches_ messily and the sound drills its way between your legs hard enough it takes your breath away. “Or take that monster bulge of yours out for a spin. That’s an option too.” He makes the sound again. You feel your sweat soak through four out of your six layers, and it actually takes effort to keep your hands from shaking. “What do you say, Zahhak? Think you can pretend you hate me like that? I’ll treat you _good_.” 

He’s laughing as you abscond hurriedly out of the block, locking the door behind you as if you could somehow lock the thoughts as well. You have four hours before you have to be back in the bridge again. You spend one of them in the ablution trap, one hand wrist-deep inside your nook and furiously hating yourself for it. 

  


* * *

  


He comes to see you three shifts later. 

You’re having dinner in your block, preparing to go to sleep for a few hours, when there’s a knock in your door. You leave your meal on your desk and go open the door, only to stare at him as he shifts uncomfortably in place. He might be two feet shorter than you, yes, but he’s still probably the second tallest troll in the entire ship. And he looks so _small_. You’ve seen him do that all your life, though. The way he shifts his shoulders and curves his spine; of course his talent to look meek and pathetic would be the one thing he’d keep, after all these sweeps. 

“Yes?” You ask, aware your tone is not particularly welcoming at the moment, but not really caring because you’re _annoyed_ at him. 

“Ah, I came in to apologize,” he says, pointedly not looking up at you, and it pleases you that he’s humiliating himself for your sake, and it infuriates you because he shouldn’t humiliate himself for anyone’s sake. “About. You know.” 

“Last time?” You make your tone spiteful, because your feelings frustrate you and it’s his fault, clearly, no one else makes you feel the way he does, but all you manage is to make him flinch and make yourself feel worse because of it. 

“Yeah, I…” He looks up briefly, and without the glasses his eyes look a lot more expressive than you were expecting. He looks back down to the floor again. “I want to point out I was high like a kite on painkillers, but. Still. You have terrible luck with me and altered states of consciousness. Sorry.” 

You look down at him for a long moment. The ease he has to apologize sits unpleasantly in your gut. You command the churning disaster in your gut to calm down and make a choice. Things can hardly go on as they have. 

“Come inside,” you command, stepping back so he can do so. He looks up for a second, before slouching in, guarded. “Sit.” 

You close the door and head out of the block, returning a moment later with a small box of medical supplies. He’s sitting in the same place he was, last time, except this time there is no highblood meaning behind his posture. It’s meek and exhausted and it _pisses you off_ more than you wish it did. 

“I—“ 

“Be quiet,” you snap, placing the box on the desk and dragging the other chair closer to where he is. “Tell me how this happened.” 

He opens his mouth to speak, but then you grab his chin to tilt it the right angle and he goes limp with a soft gasp. His eyes slide close as you force your hands to be gentle, tugging off the gauze covering most of his face. Six metal staples are holding the wound close, but it will scar horribly that way. Medbay personnel don’t care about scars, only about keeping people alive. 

“The damn thing slammed into a launch tunnel,” he says, voice low and oddly breathy as you press a piece of gauze wet with antiseptic against the angry violet flesh. “It bounced off the walls before it hit the hangar gate and exploded. I got hit with flying debris and just barely avoided losing my head. The guy right next to me got cut in half. It was pretty damn gross.” His breathing hitches, as you rub along the side of his nose, his hands flexing in his lap. “I think the explosion was intentional, because out of nowhere there’s this _thing_ out there. Someone shot it down, but there were guts everywhere and everyone was losing their damn shit over it. So. I started ordering people around. I mean it wasn’t as bad as it looks. It hurt worse when they stapled it in place.” 

“You need proper sutures,” you say, and you watch in fascination as his expression falls, fins and shoulders dropping in unison. 

“I don’t—“ 

“It will scar badly, otherwise,” you point out, hoping to appeal to his vanity. 

“It’s okay,” he laughs weakly, somewhat desperately. It makes you scowl. “You’re not a full-fledged member of the fleet until you’ve got a few of those, right?” 

“Ampora.” 

“I came here to apologize for sexually harassing you, okay,” he swallows hard. “If you put a needle through me, shit is gonna get really fucking awkward in record time.” You arch an eyebrow at him. “Please.” 

You stare at each other for a long moment, and only now you realize how close you’re sitting from each other. He looks absolutely pitiful and it’s driving you insane. 

“Language,” you mutter somewhat off handedly, turning to sterilize your hands and slip in a pair of latex gloves. Ampora flinches as the gloves snap into place. “And I am afraid this is already awkward enough, in case it had escaped your notice. You can hardly make it worse.” 

You turn to look at him, needle and thread in one hand. 

“I get off on pain,” he blurts out before pressing hard into the back of the chair. “I haven’t gotten laid in weeks, Zahhak, and I really, honestly, genuinely get off on pain. I’m crawling up the fucking walls and if you put a needle anywhere on me I’m going to ruin your chair.” 

You let out a slow, controlled breath, considering your options. He looks obscenely vulnerable in front of you, trying to appeal to your morals to get out of this. What he can’t possibly know is that the more he tries to bend and twist to suit your tastes and play you the right way, the more you fucking _hate_ him. 

You hate everything he’s been reduced to. You hate that he’s both above and below you, and how that contradiction trips your sense of property and keeps you flailing inwardly and grasping at straws to figure out how to treat him. You hate that he’s made you want him, despite and because of how much you hate him, in ways you haven’t wanted anyone in decades. You hate quite possibly every single thing about him because it’s not perfect and it _could_ be and you _want_ it to be. 

Above it all, you hate him for not realizing it. 

“Mind your language,” you say, reaching a hand to tilt his chin up again. “And hold still.” 

He makes a sound through clenched teeth, violet eyes pinning you in place with something that almost mirrors the gnarled emotions in your chest, but you focus your attention on his wound and the needle in your hand. As it slides through skin and flesh, he shifts minutely, pressing his thighs together. You concentrate on your work, making sure the stitches are small and even. By the time you reach the first staple, he’s breathing loudly through his mouth. By the time you’re done, he’s trembling in place, eyes unfocused and expression hazy. It shoots straight to your groin harder than you expected it to, but you’re still clearly more in control than he’ll ever be. A hand reaches out to grab your unbroken horn, as you pull away, and it is with surprising strength, that he pulls you down until he’s hissing the words millimeters away from your lips. 

“If you leave me like this—“ 

There’s anger and lust in his eyes, plain enough even you can’t mistake it for something else. You swallow hard. 

“What if I do?” You say, because you’re not really sure what else can you do. 

The reality of the situation is slowly but surely taking away your own self-control and blasting your self-confidence into smithereens. Because you want him, oh. You want him _so bad_. But no one you’ve ever wanted has looked at you the way he’s doing it, and now that you’ve left him like this, you don’t know how to follow up on the teasing. Even now, he makes you feel inadequate just by existing and it’s driving you insane. 

“What do you _want_ from me, you fucking hateful shit?” He drags his claws down the side of your horn, and the sensation is new and soul destroying, making your knees buckle under you. You only stop yourself from falling when you reach out and hold onto the armrests of his chair. His claws dig into your hair, wet with sweat, and he doesn’t care as he fists it almost painfully, tilting your head to the side. “You and your fucking highblood games, Zahhak, what the fuck—“ 

“You,” you hiss, unable to kneel down or stand up by the hold he has on your head, forced into such an uncouth position and finding yourself aroused to the point of breathlessness because of it. “I _hate_ you, you—“ 

He throws his entire body at yours. Normally, that wouldn’t move you an inch, but the posture you’re in means inherently poor balance and when he collides with you, you find yourself sprawling back on your butt, with Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora straddling your lap and his lips trying to tear off yours. You dig your fingers on the floor, feeling metal denting under them, as he wraps his arms around your head, claws digging hard enough to be felt but nowhere near hard enough to make you bleed. 

And then he starts grinding his hips. 

It’s getting progressively harder to breathe, between his tongue down your throat and the sinuous twist of his hips as he shifts against you. You can feel your bulge pressing hard against the confines of your uniform, and your nook pulse and throb between your legs. You’re horrified to realize Ampora doesn’t intend to stop any time soon, even as the wetness spreads between your legs. You want to laugh at the idea of ever being more in control than him, when it comes to matters like these. But you’re too busy falling to pieces to really care or notice. And then he goes rigid, breaking the kiss to arch back and throw his head back as he comes all over your lap in the single most depraved display you’ve ever witnessed in your life. Just the idea of him gushing genetic material all over your lap, using you like a pail, is enough to send you over the edge, writhing beneath him and further destroying the metal plating of the floor. 

He’s still sitting on your hips, when you regain control of yourself again. He has his hands pressed down your lower abdomen, watching your face attentively with an expression you can’t decipher. You shudder violently as you realize you’re lying in an ever growing puddle of your combined genetic material and your clothes are ruined beyond words. 

And you feel good. 

You feel so _good_. 

You hate him twice as much as you did before, just for that. 

“Most people,” he slurs his vowels, inching forward so his head is hanging a few inches above yours, “would just corner me after work, you know? Hey, Eri, I have a hate itch in my bulge, care to help me scratch it? And I’d help. Because I’m nice like that. But you’re not most people, are you.” 

“No,” you whisper, strangely afraid to move, and pull yourself away from the sweat and the slurry and the sheer inappropriateness of the situation. “I’m not.” 

“You’re a despicable piece of shit, Zahhak,” he leans in and licks some sweat off your face. You find yourself trembling again. “And if you don’t fuck me until you break me, I’ll fucking murder you, you fucking hateful shitstain of a troll.” 

“Language,” you croak weakly, as he slides to his feet gracefully and slowly begins to undress. 

“ _Fuck_ language.” 

Those long, spidery fingers work wonders on his uniform, sliding it off with remarkable ease. And then he’s standing there, bare skin everywhere and your bulge twitches interestedly, when you realize he took the binder off and there is gold hanging off his gills. It sinks in, a little harder, what he means by getting off on pain. He’s such a hateful collection of depravity and lewdness and _you hate him so much_. You don’t trust yourself to try and get your clothes off without tearing them to rags, so you just captchalogue them all. Ampora makes a sound in the back of his throat, and you regret not moving because now you’re naked in a puddle of your own secretions and if he weren’t pinning you down with that look you’d be running away as fast as your legs could carry you. You still have half a mind to run anyway, when he slides down again, thighs brushing against yours as he sits down in your lap again. Except you’re naked this time and that means you can feel his bulge twisting against the dip of your hip, while your own twitches up against the rim of his nook. And everything is wet and gross and disgraceful and lewd and you think you might die, before it’s all over. 

“I… I…” 

“Use your fucking words, Zahhak,” and he’s tugging you up by the horn again, until you’re sitting up and looking down at him again. You don’t need a towel. You need the whole fucking stock. He sneers. “It’s what we civilized trolls do, you know.” 

Oh god, you hate him _so much_. 

You lean in and bite his shoulder, hard enough you feel skin breaking and blood flowing. The reaction is immediate: he squirms in your grip, grinding against you, and you can feel wetness sliding down his nook onto your bulge. It makes you twitch some more, arousal coming back with a vengeance. 

“I have not done this before,” you hiss against his skin, resisting the urge to lick your lips because there’s blood in them and it’s _violet_ and you want to die. “Ever.” 

“Could’ve fooled me, there,” he moans, still clawing your skull and shifting in your lap as if to coax your bulge back to its full size. It’s working disturbingly well. “Maybe you’re just a natural slut, Zahhak,” he twists his hand in your hair and you snarl down at him, fingers twitching. You want to hold him but you don’t dare to. Your control over your strength is remarkable, these days, but you won’t risk hurting him beyond repair. He grinds against you again, infuriatingly distracting. “Or maybe you caught it from me, eh? How long til you’re barhopping with me, looking for a little fun in a dark cor—“ 

He squeaks as you surge forward and pin him to the ground without even touching him. You hold yourself above him, snarling. He seems surprised, but not afraid. Satisfaction roars in your veins as you slide your tongue into his mouth, mimicking the way he did it to you. His hands clutch helplessly at your hair as he writhes beneath you, and you like him like this, you realize. You shouldn’t, but you do. More than that, you like the way he’s trying to keep up and kiss back, pulling on your hair and arching his hips up to try and touch yours, because it means he’ll fight back. It means he’ll try to turn you around and your gut throbs at the thought. 

“You will not do that anymore,” you order, before you can really think about it. “Never again.” 

He’s breathless, and even so, he refuses to back down. He arches an eyebrow, taunting. Like he’s not lying in a puddle of slurry with your sweat dripping down onto him and his bulge coiling on itself, waiting for more. 

“And what makes you think you can say that?” 

You feel your own bulge lash against your thighs. 

“Because no kismesis of mine would resort to something so crass to get my attention.” 

He kisses you with teeth, claws digging into your scalp and the back of your neck, and you roll onto your back, pulling him with you as you do. He doesn’t break the kiss as he goes, and when he tears at your bottom lip you feel a rush of excitement rolling down your spine. He scoots forward as he breaks the kiss, knees against your sides and weight resting mostly on your hips. Then he presses a hand to the center of your chest and uses it to push himself back as he _grinds_ , until his nook is rubbing at the base of your bulge. 

“This,” he moans, wanton and terrible and hateful, pinning you down with his stare, “is going to hurt so _good_.” 

You raise up to you elbows to get a better look as he kneels up and reaches down a hand to hold onto the very tip of your bulge. You groan at the subtle pressure of fingers and take a deep breath as he guides you up against his entrance. He can’t possibly take you. He just can’t. You’re consumed by lust and self-consciousness and anticipation, as you slide in the first inch. He’s _cold_. Wet and cold and tight, and you want to close your eyes and die, but you can’t look away, as he clenches and unclenches his muscles and slowly coaxes you inside. You’ve never felt anything like it before. He works you in slowly, his own bulge twisting and smearing violet all over his lap. You can’t take it, you’re going to die. He’s hissing profanity between each breath, and you can see the muscles twitching under his skin, the further down he goes. The closer he gets to the base, the more clearly you can see the rim of his nook, swollen and violet, contrasting with the deep, saturated blue of your bulge. It’s obscene. Outrageous. You’re shaking by the time he takes those impossible last two inches in. He’s crying, and you hate him for it, because before you can even force your throat to make sounds resembling words, he _ripples_ around you. 

It takes you six breaths to realize the cry bouncing off the walls came out of your throat, and only because he’s laughing between sobs, shifting slightly and twitching. When he does it again, clenching his muscles around you, you’re fairly certain that you just spat out profanity at him for it. You snarl, and he laughs again, until you sit up and his laughter ends up choked. His hands come to your shoulders and the base of your neck, claws digging in as you try to move in the confined space. You have good control of your bulge, if nothing else because you’ve always tended to your frustrations on your own. You never thought you’d be using that experience like this, however. The first uncertain twist makes him sob and tighten his grip on your neck. Your breathing hitches and you shift again, unconsciously this time. His eyes widen, so you twist again, pressing against the cold, wet flesh around you, and you stare in fascination as his expression falls apart. It has to hurt, it almost hurts you, and he’s so _tight_. 

You fall into an awkward rhythm together, of twists and twitches and clenching and sobbing and moaning. The only sounds in the block are your ragged breathing and the little hisses of air passing between his teeth, as if by mutual agreement you had decided to hide in the silence. You take his hands and lift them higher on your throat, so when he tightens his grip, you find your airsacks burning for air. Then you risk placing your hands on his hips, lifting him scantly an inch before you let him fall. You can feel electricity spreading through your nerves, pleasure building up in every corner of your being and threatening to swallow you whole. He reaches climax first, muscles tightening to the point of pain and you find yourself following him as his grip on your throat turns brutal. Time skips a beat, and when it falls back into place, you’re sprawled on your back and he’s a boneless heap on your chest. 

You enjoy perhaps ten seconds of afterglow, mind stuffed with wool and muscles lax, as if your bones had been replaced with foam. Then reality asserts itself and you can feel the awkwardness and the panic sinking in your gut, because you’re lying on the floor, your own slurry slowly crusting everywhere and you… 

You just had sex with Eridan _fiddlesticks_ Ampora, and it was possibly the greatest thing you’ve ever done in your life. 

Oh god. 

Oh dear merciful god. 

You want to _die_. 

“Ampora,” you say, wincing as you try to move, because your hair is drenched in slurry and sweat and you might legitimately be sick if you don’t get to the ablution trap as soon as possible. “Ampora.” He doesn’t respond, though you can see his ribs moving in time with his breathing and he groans softly as your bulge retracts from him with a wet, nauseating sound. “Eridan.” 

His name tastes strange on your tongue. 

“Fuck off.” 

You flinch but can’t even be bothered to say anything about his atrocious use of language. You try to sit up and he digs in his claws into your chest, hissing. 

“I—“ You swallow hard. “We should clean up.” 

“We should stay right where we are,” he mutters, releasing the pressure of his claws on your skin. “I’m not moving for a sweep, Eq.” 

Such a gross mutilation of your name sends shivers down your spine. You want to be angry at him, but you can’t muster much, not when your body is still flooded with the aftershocks of pleasure and feeling sated like it never has, before. 

“You’re moving,” you say, ignoring the claws as you sit up. Am—Eridan sprawls in your lap like a boneless ragdoll, pressing his forehead to your chest. “We’re both moving. We must clean up and dress properly, and then I will look at your face and make sure you didn’t pull on a stitch with that ridiculous—“ 

“I’m gonna murder you in your sleep,” he says, accent thick and voice dangerously sleepy. You splutter as the words register. “When I can move again and I find out if you pulverized my hips or not. I’m gonna murder you in your fucking sleep. See if I don’t.” 

“That is wholly inappro—Eridan? _Eridan_.” 

He’s gone even limper than before, snoring softly through his mouth. You take a deep breath. Then another. 

“ _Fiddlesticks_.” 

  


* * *

  


CT: D--> I don’t know what I’m doing with my life anymore  
CT: D--> He snores, Nepeta  
CT: D--> It is the most hideous sound  
CT: D--> And then he left when he woke up and went right back to being his obnoxious, undignified self  
CT: D--> He stole one of my uniforms, too  
CT: D--> Which I suppose is acceptable in the circumstances  
CT: D--> Since he would have had to parade around naked otherwise  
CT: D--> But he could have asked  
CT: D--> I had to put up with his snoring and  
CT: D--> And the things  
CT: D--> On my f100r  
CT: D--> And we didn’t really even talk about it  
CT: D--> Oh dear god  
CT: D--> I  
CT: D--> I must talk to him about the things I said  
CT: D--> I said the must preposterous nonsense  
CT: D--> In the heat of the moment  
CT: D--> I must go  


centaursTesticle [CT] ceased trolling arsenicCatnip [AC]

AC: :33 < *quietly updates the shipping wall*

  


* * *

  


He’s in the bridge, in Zephyr’s place, when you catch up with the enemy cruiser, two days after the… incident in your quarters. 

He seems to be taking everything in stride and you are profoundly jealous of him for his ability to adapt to what goes around him. You have had three different conversations, since then. The first one was an awkward mess, when you realized you didn’t want to take back your quadrant insinuations, and which ended up in a hissing spat and left you a hickey that the collar of your uniform barely hides. The second time he proved to you he still remembers the highblood ways, and he left you reeling and frothing, over his willingness to offer you a kismesissitude set in the old ways. The third time you called him to your block under the pretense to check on his face and then you kicked him out after you reduced him to a panting, writhing mess. 

But now is not the time for that. 

You nod at him, acknowledging his presence, but then turn to your men and the open channels as the _Morrigan_ prepares for battle again. The Truvian cruiser is not slowing down, but you are almost close enough to take the damn thing down. You won’t make it to the meeting point with the _Leviathan_ in time, because of this little side trip, but you’ve steadily refused to think about that since you had to inform Vantas of the fact. He took it surprisingly well, but it might have had something to do with the fact you neglected to mention Eridan’s injuries in your report. You probably shouldn’t have done that, all things considered. 

The enemy ship is trying to escape through an asteroid belt, and the _Morrigan_ is too big to engage it in it. You order the warships to prepare for deployment and have your navigators guide the ship through the rim of the belt, preparing to strike once you are both outside of it. 

Except when you reach the other side, you are greeted with the sight of a large contingent of Truvian ships. They’re technically still within Alternian space, so they are clearly an overt war advance. There’s stunned, quasi-panicked silence in the bridge as the screens fill up with dots marking enemy ships. Those are at least fifteen armored cruisers, and that's more than enough to run your ship to the ground. 

“Captain—“ 

You take a deep breath. 

“Prepare to—“ 

Every screen in the bridge goes black. Someone whimpers in the background, but you’re too busy staring as each one is filled with a familiar gold emblem to take note of such a pitiful display. The main screen returns to its projection of the enemy ships, but the rest continue to broadcast a very familiar sign. 

“Captor,” you say, through teeth so tightly clenched you’re certain they’re going to break. The main screen shifts as a very obnoxious  2up appears on it. “What’s the meaning of this?” 

2orry for not warning you about the trap  
you 2eemed bu2y at the tiime and all  
ju2t lettiing you know iitll be alriight  
the cavalry ii2 on iit2 way

“Oh, fuck,” Eridan blurts out, as a new, larger dot appears in the display, a helpful tag next to it labeling _Leviathan_. “You didn’t—“ 

2orry, eriidan, iit2 for the greater good

“Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuckity fuck, Captor, you wriggling bag of pus-rotten _bulges!_ ” 

ehehehehehehehehe  
cheer2, enjoy the fiirework2

“Ampora—“ 

It’s instantaneous. 

One moment the Truvian ships are quickly multiplying as the cruisers deploy their warships, the next they’re gone. Just. Gone. 

“Enemy signals gone, sir.” 

You swallow hard. 

“Shift to visual input,” you snap, as Eridan slouches back into his chair, holding his head in his hands. The screens dutifully offer video feed. Of nothing. “That’s not—rewind it, to before the signals were lost.” 

You stare in horror as a flash of lightning, red and blue, arcs along the enemy lines, vaporizing everything in its wake. The bridge is oppressively silent, trolls staring at the screen as the same image plays over and over again. You have a sinking feeling you know precisely what just happened. 

“Everyone stand down,” you say after a moment, swallowing hard. “Prepare the gate to connect with the _Leviathan_.” 

“I am so dead,” Eridan whispers forlornly. “We’re all so dead.” 

You refuse to comment, no matter how much you might agree with him. 

“Come,” you say instead, turning to leave the bridge, “I imagine your moirail will want to have words with you.” 

He laughs an ugly, ragged laugh, but does as you say. Together, you walk down the corridors towards the gate, like two criminals heading to the execution block. 

  


* * *

  


You don’t know what you expected, but the Helmsman surpasses it in every sense of the word. 

You had seen him before, of course, during your occasional visits to the Empress’ flagship, but the troll storming down the tunnel connecting both ships is nothing short of terrifying. Red and blue lightning crackles all around him, and even if you just hadn’t witnessed what that light can do, you would still feel intimidated by the display. You have perhaps a second to notice the lines of gold curling on his skin and wonder what possessed him to do such a thing, when you find yourself pinned to a steel wall, invisible hands pressing hard enough you can hear your bones creak. 

“Let him go, love,” Eridan says, in the softest of voices. “Mituna, let him go. Please.” You tilt your head against the pressure, catching a glimpse of the seadweller wrapped around the psionic, fingering his hair and crushing the shorter troll to his chest, before you’re shoved harder and a soft hiss escapes your mouth. “It’s not his fault. Please. Let him go. He’s… he’s important to me. _Please_.” 

Abruptly, he lets go of you and you crumple to the floor, gasping for air. You’re not quite ready to pull yourself back to your feet, when you catch sight of gold and white and scarlet, and as you look up, you find Vantas staring down at you with an unreadable expression. 

“Now,” he says, tone pleasant enough to make you shiver, “while Eridan does damage control, why don’t you and I sit down with a nice cup tea, Equius, and you explain to me what _the festering fuck_ is going on?” 

“Of course.” You swallow hard, standing up slowly and wondering if you have any broken bones. That would be a novelty, you don’t think you’ve ever experienced something like that. You’re not in any real hurry to go through it again, though. “Please, follow me.” 

You catch Eridan’s eye as he slowly drags his moirail towards the _Leviathan_ , while you step back to let Karkat walk into the _Morrigan_. You don’t know what’s going to happen, but you belatedly realize you’re about to have a serious conversation with Karkat Vantas, in the same block you fucked his matesprit into a puddle of slurry. 

Were you a lesser troll, you’d allow yourself a whimper. 

Because you’re Equius Zahhak, you merely close your eyes and promise yourself you’ll take it out on Eridan later. If you’re still alive, by then. 

  


* * *

  


caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling centaursTesticle [CT]

CA: so  
CA: that happened  
CT: D--> Indeed  
CA: howw did it go  
CT: D--> It went  
CA: oww  
CT: D--> I trust your moirail has been properly pacified  
CA: yeah  
CA: kar didnt yell at you too much did he  
CT: D--> I am afraid what transpired between the High Chancellor and myself is none of your business  
CA: fuck right off, eq  
CA: hes my matesprit an youre my kismesis  
CA: its pretty much entirely my fuckin business  
CT: D--> Language  
CA: go fuck yourself on something sharp  
CT: D--> Perhaps I might  
CA: oh no  
CA: no  
CA: dont go there, asshole  
CA: youre not gonna derail this convversation wwith your goddamn sexy wwiles  
CT: D--> Wiles, Eridan  
CT: D--> Really  
CA: shut up  
CA: god  
CA: youre so fuckin hateful  
CA: <3<  
CT: D--> The feeling, I assure you, is entirely mutual  
CT: D--> …  
CT: D--> <3<  
CT: D--> Now   
CT: D--> Tell me what the purpose of this conversation is  
CT: D--> If it is not about my supposed wiles and what retribution I will be extracting out of you with them  
CA: see  
CA: the wway i see it  
CA: this wwasnt my fault  
CT: D--> Shocking  
CA: shut up  
CA: it wwasnt your fault either  
CT: D--> Debatable  
CA: no, see  
CA: wwho gave psii an kar that vvideo a me losin half my goddamn face  
CA: that sent psii into a murderous rage in the first place?  
CT: D--> Oh  
CA: yeah  
CT: D--> Go on  
CA: so im thinkin  
CA: wwere highbloods you an i  
CA: civvilized folk  
CT: D--> Indeed  
CA: so howw about instead a takin it out on each other like lowwblood wwigglers that dont evven knoww howw kismesissitude wworks  
CA: wwe do the highblood thing  
CA: an make it a game to see wwho gets captor best  
CA: or wworst  
CA: dependin on howw you look at it  
CT: D--> My, oh my  
CT: D--> Such a 100rid proposition, Eridan  
TA: you two fucker2 know ii can 2ee thii2  
TA: riight  
CA: you can go fuck yourself on your owwn damn horns, captor  
CA: my hatred for you is strictly platonic  
CT: D--> Likewise  
TA: ehehehehehehehehe  
TA: nerd2  
TA: briing iit on, biitches  
TA: iitd take both of you two even come clo2e two ‘gettiing’ me  
CT: D--> Eridan  
CA: mmm  
CT: D--> You have yourself a deal  
CA: swweet  
CA: noww  
CA: back to your wwiles  
TA: ugh  
TA: iim outta here  
CT: D--> Well…  


  


* * *

  


_In the back of my head, there's_  
 _A siren that won't shut up._  
 _I didn't plug my ears, I took_  
 _My hands and started to dance._  
 _Come on, come on, come on, breathe in._

~ Hatsune Miku, “Hyperventilation Dance.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what I'm doing with my life anymore. Is that a Power Rangers reference in there? Yes, yes it is.
> 
>  
> 
> [RP/Askblog for this verse.](http://requisitionforms.tumblr.com/)


End file.
